Revelations
by TheCauldron
Summary: When Sherlock faked his death, he knew nobody would see through his plan. It was foolproof. Wasn't it?


**Revelations**

Sherlock stepped into the restaurant, eyes flicking around as he sought his target.

Two years, he had waited for this moment. When he'd faked his death on the top of St Barts, he'd expected to be gone for six months at most. Six months had turned into a year, and then one year into two, but now he was finally home. He just needed one more thing to make it _feel_ that way again.

Spying his quarry, he strode gracefully to a table in the far corner, breathing deeply and bracing himself for the confrontation to come. He was going to get punched, he just knew it. It would be worth it, though, to be able to go back to 221B with his doctor. To be able to listen to the other man fussing about in the kitchen and complaining about eyeball splatter in the microwave, the scent of warm tea and chocolate biscuits filling the air again. He'd missed it more than he could have ever anticipated, though he'd never admit it to anyone else.

Coming to a halt, he rested a fingertip lightly on the fabric of the table cloth, the only concession he would allow himself in his desire to fidget. "John." He was pleased that his voice was steady. With the lump currently pressing in his throat, he'd been sure he'd only manage inarticulate croaking.

The stocky blond looked up from his steak and raised an eyebrow, shifting slightly to push out the other chair with his foot, before returning to his meal. "Tsk tsk Sherlock. Faking your own death to get out of an argument with me? Extreme, even for you. Though I suppose it did stop me nagging you get the milk."

Sherlock blinked, stunned. "You worked it out." He dropped heavily into the offered chair, leaning back limply.

Rolling his eyes, John took another bite, chewing slowly. "Yes."

The detective licked his lips nervously, eyes darting over the friend he had thought of every day of his exile. "And you're not angry?"

Lifting a sardonic eyebrow, he met Sherlock's gaze. "Oh, I was. Very angry. But I calmed down once I understood, and since then I've been tracking you; even helped you out a few times. That thing in Moscow? And New York. Venice. Israel. Prague. Paris I arrived too late for, sorry about that. Dealt with the hunter you picked up there though, before he could get too close to you. Not like you to be so sloppy with clean up, though I assume it was due to the bullets you had to dig out of yourself, so I'll cut you a little slack about that one."

Sherlock gaped. "How did you manage all that with a sniper on your tail?"

John let a cold smile drift across his lips. "Funny thing. The sniper on me, Sebastian Moran? He was one of my trainers in the army. I found out he was sexually assaulting some of the privates, and he was dishonourably discharged, largely because of my testimony. I saw him tailing me - I got much better at spotting that, thanks to your influence - and I knew that if he was around, he was probably working for Moriarty, most likely assigned to take me out. Paid for personal revenge? Right up his alley, and he was definitely the sort Moriarty would have recruited. He was in Mycroft's custody two days after the funeral. The other two snipers joined him four hours later. Apparently he was Moriarty's right hand man. Sloppy really, since while he wasn't stupid, he certainly wasn't the intellectual powerhouse that Jim was."

Overwhelmed, Sherlock snatched up John's wine glass and gulped a mouthful, uncaring that he was completely lacking respect for such an excellent vintage. "He talked?"

The doctor flashed that unnervingly cold smile again, hooded eyes glittering maliciously. "I can be persuasive."

Sitting back and staring in shock, Sherlock did his best to process the new information. "You were an army doctor."

"Yes."

"Mycroft didn't give me your full military file."

"No."

"What _exactly_ did you do in the army?"

Taking another leisurely bite, John looked at Sherlock calmly, remaining silent.

Sherlock found himself floundering as his perception of the man before him shifted fundamentally. "Fuck me," he swore in shock, realisation setting in.

John raised an amused eyebrow, oh-so-casually licking a drop of gravy from his fork. "Do I have time for dessert first?"

A moment of silence descended between them as everything hung in the balance, gazes locked unblinkingly.

Finally, Sherlock let out a strangled cough, and raised a hand to attract a waiter, eyes never leaving John's. "Check please!"


End file.
